


if your heart doesn't fit

by princegrantaire



Series: a world with love [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Childhood Trauma, Developing Friendships, Friendship/Love, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Minor Character Death, Origin Story, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-23 05:14:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18147554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princegrantaire/pseuds/princegrantaire
Summary: Two weeks after his parents’ funeral, Bruce Wayne kneels in his en-suite bathroom, tiles cold through thin pyjama pants, and clutches Thomas Wayne’s razor. He prays.(A series of vignettes detailing Bruce's life throughout the years, ranging from the Wayne murders to that first spark of Batman.)





	if your heart doesn't fit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [slaapkat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slaapkat/gifts).



> hi, this is a little heavy so a few warnings to start us off!
> 
> \- this begins with bruce's suicide attempt and the event is referenced throughout the entire fic, as this is based on what's been mentioned in tom king's run (specifically batman #12). it's nothing more graphic than what appears in the run/that particular issue but please heed the tags nonetheless  
> \- the minor characters' death tag is, of course, about thomas & martha  
> \- there is another instance of a non-graphic panic attack
> 
> this is a fic that felt necessary to write and is also very close to the heart, obviously a lot of canon combinations here and a whole lot more personal headcanons but i do hope you enjoy it! it follows bruce from when he's ten years old to when he's nineteen and about to leave to train with ra's al ghul. also this takes place in the nineties! (specifically the waynes die in 1991 and you do the math from there)
> 
> MORE IMPORTANTLY, this was initially meant as a birthday gift for my most wonderful & bestest buddy @slaapkat but i'm unfortunately two days overdue :(. all the same, HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! UR THE ABSOLUTE BESTEST AND I'M /SO/ SORRY THIS IS TERMINALLY SAD! WISHING U THE BEST BDAY WEEK EVER <3
> 
> enjoy!

The summer he’s ten years old, Bruce Wayne bleeds out in his en-suite bathroom and doesn’t wake up.

Not quite true.

Two weeks after his parents’ funeral, Bruce Wayne kneels in his en-suite bathroom, tiles cold through thin pyjama pants, and clutches Thomas Wayne’s razor. He prays. The first cut is precise, the others falter and shake. It’s not too different from the blood in the alley. His mother’s hand had been warm and he’d kept it warm until--

His mother’s hand had been warm but bloodied. She must’ve pressed it against the wound, instinct against reason, as she’d stumbled back.

At ten years old, Bruce’s bedroom is on the third floor. Perfect view of the manor’s grounds stretching over the horizon. It used to seem infinite. There’s a window here, not too high up. Bruce half-watches the sunrise with glazed-over eyes. He’s still kneeling. Any moment now.

It’s not too late, then. If he’s lived past his time already, the slight delay has been rectified. Bruce doesn’t smile but he doesn’t cry either.

  
\---

  
Alfred doesn’t trust him.

There’s no involuntary psych hold. It’s the Wayne name, Bruce thinks, rather than his age or however much money’s been thrown at the doctors. The day and night in the hospital are a haze of whispered conversations and concerned faces. Dr. Thompkins visits. So does Officer Gordon, who’d found him on the 26th of June in an blood-stained alley.

His bandages itch.

By the time he’s discharged, it’s exactly two days since Bruce’s last said a single word. He intends, with all the determination a childhood cut short affords, to keep it that way. The reasons pile on. His bedroom’s been moved to the ground floor -- an ex-guest room across the hall from Alfred’s own room.

It looks identical.

It feels nothing like it. This isn’t where his mother last kissed his forehead before bed, gentle like Bruce had always known her to be.

Instead, among the few familiar comforts still standing, he holes up in the library. The bandages still itch or, alternatively, the faint ache of his wrists makes it hard to forget. A collection of _Nancy Drew_ books is better company than most and in-between mysteries, Bruce sobs, swallowed up by grief, quiet enough that it won’t echo all the same.

Doors are to be kept open at all times. Whenever Alfred has to leave the manor, short shopping trips and the like, the duty extends to Bruce, too. It’s a routine he gets used to in increments, knows it denotes concern and doesn’t feel much of it.

Bruce doesn’t know what he’d expected. There’s not much of anything left to be felt.

It’s a sort of nothingness in itself, just not the one he’d aimed for.

There’s pity and then there’s Alfred looking at him like he’s likely to flicker out of existence at the slightest provocation. Even now, Bruce thinks of the blade and the blood. He might’ve gotten lost in all that grief.

  
\---

  
First day of school. Fifth grade. He’s still ten, though the weeks have gone by slow like molasses and Bruce finds it hard to believe it’s been any less than a year.

26th June. 10:48 PM. The wound still bleeds.

He’d seen the watch on his father’s wrist.

Bruce is parked in front of the TV with a bowl of milk and cereal, the sugary kind that he won’t permit himself in the coming years. In spite of the _Gray Ghost_ rerun playing right before his eyes, he keeps glancing at the backpack -- brand new and sporting the same masked vigilante as the TV -- resting next to him on the floor. He feels _sick_. Abruptly and frantically.

The bowl is set down.

“Master Bruce, I believe it’s time we left for--” There’s a hint of hope here, there and gone again in the split second it takes Alfred to make it far enough into the room.

Hands clawing at his tie, and here lie the dangers of Gotham Academy’s uniform, Bruce struggles through wheezing breaths. “I-- I’m--” He doesn’t know what he’s saying, just that he _can’t_ say it. He gasps and finds that he can’t breathe. Again and again, even as Alfred rushes in and holds him close and begs Bruce to breathe along with him.

He’s never-- He doesn’t know what’s happening. He doesn’t know if _Alfred_ knows and that sends Bruce reeling again, gasping through the lack of air, panic tearing at his insides.

So. He misses the first day. Week. Month.

Alfred doesn’t ask and Bruce never does find the words.

Later, he learns about panic attacks and understands another little piece of him has been broken, chipped away until that blind agony comes in regular waves of despair.

  
\---

  
Dr. Nora Crest is Bruce’s latest in a long line of therapists. Two in three months is something of a personal record but it doesn’t feel much like victory. She’s a portly woman in her fifties whose repertoire extends to a tired _How does that make you feel?_ and no further, despite Dr. Thompkins’ recommendation.

Bruce still doesn’t talk. Much. Not that there’s anything to compel him here.

He keeps remembering, there and during those long hours when he’s shipwrecked in the library, _The Secret of the Old Clock_ and how Nancy Drew’s mother had died when she was ten too and how easily the words had come to her. That’s not likely to ever be him, Bruce knows.

“Do you ever think about going back to school?” Dr. Crest asks.

It’s been two years. Alfred’s been handling his homeschooling for a year and a half. Bruce wants to laugh.

Does he ever think about being the kid whose mommy and daddy got shot? The boy who died and didn’t quite come back? The permanent long sleeves? The inevitable isolation? No. Not very often.

That _is_ him. And not. Varying shades of grey, an upcoming identity crisis wrapped up tight in loneliness.

  
\---

  
A man comes by during one of Bruce’s morning classes. The doorbell echoes insistently, doesn’t stop until Alfred makes his way down from the drawing room, sharing a half-confused look with Bruce on the way out. They don’t get many visitors, these days.

Bruce waits a perfunctory two minutes then dashes out of the room, socks sliding on the hardwood floor. He’s quiet, or quiet enough, as he peers from the staircase -- a manoeuvre he’d perfected back when nighttime guests and galas were the norm. The man’s not immediately recognisable but then again, a sleek black suit and greying hair is all Bruce can spot from where he’s standing. Not the kinda attire a Wednesday afternoon demands. Familiar, in its own way. Bruce risks a few more steps.

The stairs creak.

Alfred looks up, a fraction of a second of suspicion, and there’s a barely-contained anger to him, too stiff to be merely polite. Bruce holds his breath. In the same instant, he sees the scars. Just a glimpse. Alfred turns back, seemingly satisfied.

The man, and his name still isn’t immediately apparent, has three scars on his cheek -- deep and at first glance, reminiscent of cat scratches. Bruce’s seen them before, he’s sure. He thinks of his father’s arm draped carelessly around a man’s shoulder, easy camaraderie as he’d dragged Martha along for the ride too, the three of them disappearing into the parlour not too long after guests had started arriving. A party. Or a gala, Bruce can’t remember.

It’s strange, what he remembers and what’s been forgotten. The sightings had never lasted, it would always be long past his bedtime and Alfred would often take it upon himself to usher Bruce back to bed.

Still, he’s convinced. The man knows-- _knew_ his father.

“Sir, if you were welcome here in Mr. Wayne’s time, I assure you that is not the case anymore,” comes Alfred’s voice, just levelled enough.

“Al, how many years we’ve known each other?” The man’s voice, deep baritone and sporting the kind of accent Bruce’s only heard in the mafia comedies his father used to watch, sounds like it’d be equally compelling ringing loud in amusement or coiling around a threat. It’s veering just faintly towards the latter now. “I’d never hurt the kid. I just figured it’s been long enough since Tommy-- I was thinkin’ the kid could spend the day with me and Sofia.”

“I’m sure Master Bruce has other plans for the day.”

Bruce doesn’t. He’s yet to leave the manor this week. The world spins and doesn’t quite stop.

And then, the door is closing on this breathless interlude with a final _He needs to know!_ from a man that Bruce is yet to know. Another thread is cut. He rushes back upstairs and tries _so_ hard to remember.

It’s hard not to stare when Alfred makes it back. He hopes it’s not as accusatory as it feels. Vague recollections of hazy summers at a mansion that hadn’t been theirs spring forward. They’d stopped long before he’d been old enough to question it.

“One of your father’s old associates,” Alfred sighs, as way of explanation. “Nothing that concerns us now.”

  
\---

  
The Time-Out Café, quaint and as welcoming as any establishment downtown ever allows itself to be, lies approximately fifteen minutes away from Wayne Enterprises and a considerable distance from the manor. Too far for comfort, Bruce might say. It’s apparently Lucius Fox’s preferred spot for a late lunch during his hour-long break.

Why Alfred’s deemed his presence necessary, Bruce doesn’t know. Maybe it’s those remnants of mistrust, five years on and closed doors are often still nothing more than a fantasy. It’s-- Bruce _can’t_ go out, not like this. Not yet. Same reason he’d suffered through exactly one visit to Wayne Enterprises and even then, he’d taken it upon himself to wait in an empty corridor while Alfred had cleaned up the office.

Bruce knows how people look at him. All that pity. Or, otherwise, the scorching eyes. The unspoken questions. _Hasn’t he moved on already?_

With Lucius, it’s mostly concern. Bruce excuses himself to the bathroom when the conversation turns to business and a fortune he doesn’t care much to inherit. No one stares. He wonders if he’s recognisable even now, still chubby-cheeked despite a mostly teenaged frame and a growth spurt, dressed in all black like he’s been since the funeral.

It takes too long to lock the stall. Bruce can’t quite tell why his hands are shaking.

  
\---

  
“You’re him, aren’t you?”

At sixteen, Bruce’s dubiously survived three months of school. It’s not a glorious return. As far as small mercies go, he’s been thankfully left alone, doodling or reading in the nearest available corner, disinterest only through a distinct knowledge that he shouldn’t have made it this far. He’s still the kid on his knees in the alley. He’s still waiting.

There’s a sort of delay here. Bruce puts down The Hardy Boys’ _While the Clock Ticked_ and looks up at the boy still standing there expectantly. He’s tall, taller than Bruce at any rate, and his uniform’s scuffed in places, tie undone to drive the point home.

And the opportunity is undeniable. It’s one of those once in a lifetime things. Make it or break it. Bruce could say something witty, make a joke or something.

Anything.

He settles for a timeless _uh_. The urge to smack himself is nearly irresistible. He gets a mostly perplexed look.

“I mean, you’re Bruce Wayne, right? I heard you transferred here recently. I’m Harvey.”

  
\---

  
Life is a little brighter by Harvey Dent’s side. These days, Bruce laughs, relishes in casual touches he’s never known before. It always goes the same way. He stiffens, then tries not to stiffen, forces a smile and wills himself not to move away too quickly. Nothing more than an ingrained sense of awkwardness, too many years living like a recluse.

The gaping wound remains. He hears the gunshots when the clock hits 10:49 PM.

But.

It’s bright enough. Harvey’s persistent and he doesn’t mind the long silences when Bruce runs out of things to say. This newfound friendship holds strong even on the bad days -- the chronically missed classes, the lack of effort and the horrific grades when Bruce’s got everything going for him and Harvey’s kept himself here through sheer determination.

First time Harvey spends the night at the manor, months and months after that fateful meeting, he tells Bruce about his father, about the black eye he’d excused away last week. They’ve never discussed anything more personal than school. Comfort weighs heavy on Bruce. He can’t find the words, like every other time it’s mattered. Instead, with all the courage he’s not quite capable of, Bruce gives the one thing he hadn’t gotten the-- _that_ night. He wraps an arm around Harvey, unsure if it’s unwelcome, if it’s even allowed.

The air feels thick, like the whole room’s holding its breath. Bruce stares at the _Grey Ghost_ poster on his wall ‘till he feels like he’s running out of time, reads the words _Beware the Grey Ghost_ half a dozen times without meaning to.

“You… can stay here more often, if you want. Alfred won’t mind,” Bruce breathes out, knows Harvey can’t.

Harvey knows it too, of course. “Thanks, Bruce,” he says and sounds like he believes it.

Just like that, Bruce nods and lets go, suspects he’s lingered far longer than boys are meant to. He’s yet to be clued in on any cues he’s missed.

“When I was a kid,” Bruce starts, though he doesn’t know where he’s going with it, “I really wanted to be a detective. I mean, I still _do_ but I figured if-- If I could be that then I could stop what… happened to me from happening to other kids. Or, I could stop people like y-your dad.” He feels bad saying it, overexcited and naive, all this childish hope that’s become unrecognisable from the grief. “I think that’s what I’m gonna do.”

“Isn’t that more of a cop thing?” Harvey asks, though he’s kind and he’s listened earnestly enough. “Detectives sorta just solve crimes, right? After they happen, I guess.”

Bruce coughs, pretends his whole world isn’t crumbling. It makes sense. That’s the worst part. What Harvey’s saying makes perfect sense. He scratches at his arm, makes sure not to upset the all-too-necessary sleeve. “Well, I don’t wanna be a _cop_.” Not a whole lot of trust in the police, where he’s concerned.

“So, you want us to be Holmes and Watson?” Harvey’s smiling, wide enough that Bruce’s breath catches in his throat.

“No! I was thinking the Hardy Boys. They’re like, equals, you know.”

They’re both laughing then, carefree like Bruce’s never known himself to be.

  
\---

  
The year Bruce starts college, Gotham University gets a brand new Thomas and Martha Wayne Memorial Wing. It’s not the most subtle move in Alfred’s repertoire, that’s for certain.

He doesn’t _want_ to be here.

It’s been getting harder lately. Bruce’s spent too long living on borrowed time, assuring himself that he wouldn’t make it past ten, thirteen, seventeen and so on. All the excuses. How he’d made it through high school for Harvey, had ended up here against his will.

The thing is-- Well, Harvey’s thriving at Gotham U. He’s living on campus, he’s passionate about studying law and from what Bruce -- whose experience in such matters still extends to the likes of _Nancy Drew & Ned Nickerson _ and no further -- can see, he’s getting awfully close to one Gilda Gold. Bruce would never take that away from him.

By October, he’s taken to looking up alternatives on the computers in the library, shaking the mouse impatiently as website after website takes the better part of two minutes to load. It’d be much the same at home, he knows, but Bruce can’t bear facing Alfred.

The familiar comfort of a snack is still missed.

It’s weeks until he stumbles upon the kind of thing he’s been looking for. Bruce leans in close to the screen, stares too long at the clunky-looking site, all red text on a black background. Bafflingly, it’s all there.

Vengeance. Ninjas. Assassins. The Himalayas. A possible cult and its mysterious leader. Shadows. Remnants of shadows.

The words blend together after a point.

On the 1,048th page of the sketchiest forum on this side of the world, Bruce finds hope. He _knows_ how it sounds, knows he’s trusting less than a legend.

He also knows it’s the only chance he’s ever had.

  
\---

  
“I’m leaving. Tomorrow.”

They’re on the manor’s rooftop. Bruce’s still panting from the climb. The words simply burst out of him before he can help it.

“W-What?” Harvey steps away from him, like he’s recoiling from a punch. “It’s like what, some kinda exchange thing or… ?”

Bruce’s never gone hiking. Hell, he’s never gone _camping_. It occurs to him there’s no version of what he’s about to say, and the words strangle him one by one, that doesn’t sound like a suicide mission.

Crossing the street used to be a suicide mission.

No, what’s scarier by far is precipice he’s standing on here. He goes, he loses Harvey. It seems obvious now.

“I dropped out,” Bruce says, shrugs, like it’s out of his hands. His parents’ inevitable disappointment has never felt quite so crushing. It’s all for justice. God, it’s all for _them_. “I’m gonna go away for a while. Uh, Europe or something like that. Yeah.” He can’t tell why he’s lying.

And here, Bruce feels compelled to reach out for Harvey. He grabs his hand, doesn’t worry about his sleeve riding up. They’ve never dared before. “Hey, I’m coming back,” he whispers. “I promise.”

Harvey doesn’t quite look at him, half-obscured in shades of moonlight. “I want to believe you, Bruce.”

  
\---

  
Bruce packs all night. All the necessary funds have been transferred to his personal account. There’s a private plane waiting at the Archie Goodwin International Airport.

Through cowardice alone, he hasn’t said a word to Alfred. Not about dropping out nor about his imminent departure.

A note is considered.

He hadn’t thought to leave a note that first time.

Even now, Bruce fears he hasn’t found the words to describe the child’s fantasy that’s carrying him to the Himalayas. The belief in this potential training, in the set of skills necessitated by a victory against crime has never faltered. He thinks he might just be ready for war. He scribbles _spending the night at Harv’s!_ on a post-it note and sticks it to his own bedroom door. Alfred deserves a few hours’ peace.

Bruce steps into the night and breathes in deeply. For the first time in nine years, he feels nothing but hope.

**Author's Note:**

> a few notes regarding references:
> 
> \- as previously mentioned, bruce's suicide attempt comes from tom king's batman #12 and as always, i gotta say tom king has my absolute favourite take on bruce's mental health and feels like the only writer to understand him deeply and intimately  
> \- the date and time of the wayne deaths! the time is from rebirth but the date is from pre-new 52/rebirth simply because modern content gives us the month as september but no concrete date. plus june works nicely with bruce missing out on school  
> \- the grey ghost is from btas but we all knew that  
> \- dr nora crest is actually harvey's therapist also in, you guessed it, btas but unfortunately names of non-arkham therapists in gotham are hard to come by so. theres that.  
> \- aaaaaand that's mr carmine falcone! the falcone/thomas friendship (and more wink emoji) comes from the telltale games but it's also a constant fixture of anything i write simply because my beloved gf @permaclown and i found out it's the absolute peak of everything  
> \- time-out cafe also exists somewhere in the dcau!  
> \- harvey's father being abusive comes from gotham adventures (i believe?) but i think it's been pretty consistent throughout  
> \- bruce's habit of not speaking, tendency to consume exclusively detective content (nancy drew & the hardy boys etc), his academic situation and a few other touches are all headcanons that are very near & dear!!! he's also got a big ol crush on harvey but i didn't tag it on account of him not... actually being aware of that.
> 
> let me know what you think in the comments or on tumblr @ufonaut -- thanks for reading!!


End file.
